


Vir Adahlen

by taispeantas_laethuil



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: dragonage_kink, Cultural Differences, Dalish, Elfiness, Fantastic Racism, Lavellan the Purple, M/M, Mommy!Lavellan, Slow Burn, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:56:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4701803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taispeantas_laethuil/pseuds/taispeantas_laethuil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Together we are stronger than the one.</i>
</p><p>---</p><p>Or, while trapped by a slaving party that has already destroyed one clan, Clan Lavellan stumbles across a starving human from Tevinter. Eventually hijinks of a found family nature ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. War Leader

**Author's Note:**

> Creators help us all, this was the [prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14614.html?thread=57837334#t57837334):
> 
> "Maybe they came across him after he'd run away from Tevinter and couldn't leave him standing there all pathetic and starving, and then just gradually have him grow on them. Maybe the AU goes deeper than that, and he helped some members of Clan Lavellan escape slavery, or he ran away from home much earlier/was kidnapped and they came across him as a child. Hell, maybe after Last Resort Lavellan just kind of takes him aside and is all "look, your family sucks, I'm adopting(F!Lavellan)/marrying(M!Lavellan) you, we're family now, fuck the haters" because honestly I will never get enough of that scenario.
> 
> Basically what I want is for Dorian, despite all the reasons that having a human Tevinter mage stay with a Dalish clan is bad plan, to have a Dalish clan that considers him their own, and vice versa.
> 
> All my love if the fic (assuming this is the sort of fic where Dorian actually moves in with Clan Lavellan when they're wandering around the Marches instead of kinda-sorta joining up after Inquisition gets underway and everyone's in Skyhold or Wycome)includes cultural differences/ misunderstandings, and Dorian, while ignorant, is not willfully malicious, and kind of aware that most of what he knows about elves from Tevinter is shit, while the Dalish are not always very good at explaining things and a little impatient, but also not expecting him to immediately grok everything about the Dalish, and maybe steer him towards some of the clanmates who were born as city elves to help bridge the gap a little."

The call went up around sunrise, Darjee’s ear pricking up as the whistle sounded shrilly. Three short whistles, and one long one- not a call of distress, but one of success. Her hunters had found something, and wanted all hands to come see.

“Which way, _da’fenlon_?” she asked, shaking off her lethargy and straining her ears.

Her hound huffed cautiously, and then ran off to the left, just barely remembering that he needed to go at a pace she could follow in time for her to not lose sight of him amongst the underbrush. There was enough light for her to see, but Darjee’s coat was a dappled brown that blended in too well with the forest.

The entire clan had been on high alert for nearly a fortnight, since their trading party had come across where Clan Restathelin should have been and found only the destroyed remains of their camp. Their hounds had sniffed out where the bodies were buried- including six children who had swallowed poison, possibly given to them by their parents so they wouldn’t be taken- and weapons of Tevinter make.

_Slavers._

Clan Lavellan was bigger than Clan Restathelin had been. Unless the slaving party was unusually large, they would not be attacked while they were at rest. But the woods were full of narrow paths that could easily become the site of ambushes. They would need to know what they were dealing with before they tried to leave again. They needed to find out where the slavers were, how many they were dealing with, and what their plans for the area were.

In hindsight, however, she’s not sure why she did not expect to find her hunters surrounding a lone and rather terrified human, rather than quietly observing the slave encampment. The human was on his knees, his hands bound behind his back, and was bleeding slightly from his lip: her hunters looked rather accomplished.She was not impressed.

“What is this?” she asked flatly.

“We caught a magister!” Lahela informed her.

“I’m not a magister!” the man protested. Even accounting for the fear in his voice, he sounded younger than she first thought he was, though she had to admit she had difficulty telling human’s ages underneath all that hair.

“Yes, he is!” Lahela insisted, pointing to where a staff and a very Tevinter-looking coat were leaning against the tree. The man rolled his eyes, but said nothing when Lahela gave him a sharp look.

She surveyed her hunters, most of whom looked very proud of themselves, before focusing on the eldest, Zemfir, who looked like he could feel a headache coming in.

She knew that feeling very well. “Zemfir?” she asked.

“He had us wait until you arrived,” Lahela answered before he could, which was just disrespectful.

She unslung her bow from across her back and hit Lahela behind the head with it.

Lahela yelped. “What-”

{You are no longer a child} she snapped. {You have your _vallaslin_. You have chosen to live as an adult under the aegis of Falon’Din. Act like it, _lethallin_.}

Lahela stared. Behind her, the other hunters had gone very silent.

For the human’s benefit, she switched back to Trade. “Did it ever occur to any of you that while you stood here, puffed up like halla during rutting season around a lone shemlen captive that it took more than one shem to destroy Clan Restathelin?” she demanded. “The while you were all here, ensuring this one tied up shem caused no trouble, that you were not looking for the people who slaughtered our kin?”

Lahela staggered as the weight of their mistake hit her. “Ghilan’amin, I didn’t-”

“Yes, actually, you did,” she pointed out. “Everyone not in Zemfir’s cadre, back to your patrols. We’ll discuss this further when the guard changes.”

Her hunters turned tail melted away through the trees, leaving her alone with Zemfir, Thellin, Fathmir, and Liyalla.

“Well, Zemfir?” she asked again.

Zemfir shrugged. “If he’s a magister, then where are his slaves?”

“Do I look like I the resources to be responsible for someone else’s wellbeing?” the man interjected, which was certainly an interesting argument against being a slave owner. “Look, I am a mage from Tevinter, but I’m no magister, and I mean you no harm. I’m sorry if I disturbed some sort of holy site or trespassed on your territory, or whatever, but it was done in ignorance. I’m merely trying to pass through the Marches on my way to Orlais.”

{Guard from the shadows,} she told Zemfir. He nodded and he and his cadre melted into the foliage, out of sight from within the clearing (mostly- she was really going to have to talk to Fathmir about his unwillingness to actually get down in the dirt) but ready to charge back in if the human proved to be more dangerous than he looked.

She took a quick peak around his camp. Her hunters had obviously tossed it over, but she couldn’t help but get the impression that it had looked pretty pitiful beforehand. His lean-to was made from oilcloth that had already been patched once, there was a very small scattering of kindling she would guess had been for his fire, and an overturned pack which contained some robes and a ledger of some kind.

She sighed. Her hunters really needed a dressing down, and she could feel the resulting argument with Deshanna brewing already. This was really doing nothing for the headache she was developing.

“I’m Ghilan’amin of Clan Lavellan,” she told him, turning around to face him.

“Dorian, of House Pavus” he replied, the introduction seemingly a reflex.

“Alright Dorian of House Pavus,” she replied. “Here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to untie you, your staff will stay over there, and then we’ll talk. If you’re truthful, you’ll be left in peace. Is this acceptable?”

“Preferable to the alternatives, I’m sure,” Dorian replied.

She suppressed the urge to sigh once more. She had a feeling this was going to take some time.


	2. Altus Mage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early for real life reasons.

As promised, Ghilan’amin untied him, and helped him to stand. She even handed him his coat back, which certainly beat being stabbed and left to die in the middle of the woods. He pulled it back on, grimacing as sensation returned to his fingers, none of it good. The elf’s hound whined softly, silencing only when she clicked her tongue at it.

“Where’s your food?” she asked.

“I’m afraid I have none to offer you,” he told her. “I was intending to go hunting this morning, but that’s looking less and less likely to happen.”

She stared at him. He couldn’t help but get the impression that he’d failed to live up to her expectations in some way.

“I’m so sorry to not have a retinue of slaves bearing exotic foods with me as I traipse around this Maker-forsaken tree void,” he snapped, and immediately regretted it. Hunger made one so stupid, it seemed.

“Yeah, that looks like it could have been a bit of an oversight there, at least when it comes to the food,” she drawled.

“Then we’re in agreement,” he said.

She nodded.

“Well, the good news is that you didn’t disturb a holy site, and we technically have no territory for you to trespass upon,” she told him. “The bad news is the reason everyone’s so on edge is a nearby clan was recently set upon by slavers, who killed many and took the rest.”

“Oh,” Dorian said dumbly. “Well- uh. I didn’t do that. Which is hopefully obvious to you from the sorry state of my…everything.”

She regarded him for a moment, and he resisted the urge to squirm under her scrutiny.

“Let’s make a deal,” she said at last, reaching into her pack. She pulled out something that was wrapped in brown paper, and then revealed that something was some kind of oatcake studded with dried fruits and nuts. Dorian felt his mouth start to water, and his traitorous stomach growled. Thankfully, the elf made no comment on the matter. “Food for information,” she said, holding out the oatcake.

Dorian took it and had taken a bite before he realized that it might count as an incrimination.

“I don’t know what I can tell you,” he said between bites. “I’m not involved with the slave trade. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Still,” she replied. “Two Tevinter parties travelling through the same area at the same time… it does seem like you might know something about the other.”

Dorian snorted. “I’m not sure how you imagine these things happen, but it’s not as though we all consult with one another about our travel plans, and there’s no secret evil magisterial blood magic ritual that lets you know if your fellow Tevinters are around. Honestly, I doubt anyone in the Imperium even knows where I am.” Hopefully they didn’t, at least.

Dorian finished the oatcake, and Ghilan’amin procured another for him, which he took as gracefully as he could.

“Still, you might have stayed in the same tavern or even just the same town, recognized a familiar accent, perhaps even gotten together over a pint to complain about the weather?” she suggested.

Dorian shook his head. “If I’d heard about any Tevinters being in the vicinity, I’d have avoided the area. The fewer of my countrymen I run into, the better.”

She frowned at him. “Are you a… _fugitivus_? Is that the right word?”

Dorian choked. Ghilan’amin handed him her waterskin.

“Maker, no,” he managed when he could breathe again. “I- _fasta vass_ , I’m not a slave, I-”

“I only ask because you look like you’ve run away,” she said gently.

“Well,” he said with a sigh. “That’s fair, I suppose.”

Ghilan’amin took back her waterskin and handed him three more oatcakes, still wrapped in paper. He tucked them into the inside pocket of his coat. He’d ration those. Presuming he could actually catch something when he hunted, he might not have to skip eating at all for the next few days.

“So, you know nothing about the slavers?” she pressed.

“Only that they shouldn’t be here,” he replied.

She snorted. “No shit.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “By which I mean that it’s illegal to impress people into slavery against their will, doubly so to it outside of the Imperium’s borders. It’s a law that’s enforced, too: people are actually executed for breaking it, instead of just having it swept under the rug.”

“If it’s illegal to take slaves, then how do you still have slaves?” she asked.

“There are some people who are born slaves,” he said. “And many others who sell themselves into slavery to keep their families from falling into poverty.”

Ghilan’amin frowned. “How would being sold help your family?”

“The lump sum for your purchase is given to them, and then they have money, and are no longer impoverished,” Dorian explained.

“Enough to cover whatever it is they would have made for their families for the rest of their lives?” she asked.

“I- suppose they must?” Dorian guessed. He’d never actually considered that before. “As I said, I’m not involved with the slave trade.”

“And you have no recollection of hearing anything about fellow Tevinters on the road?”

He did actually, just the once, as he was fleeing Kirkwall. But they’d been bounty hunters, not slavers, and looking specifically for him, not just to make a profit. He doubted that they were involved.

And he really, really didn’t want to have to explain why they were after him.

“Not as such, no,” he told her.

She nodded.

“Well. Take care with yourself, Dorian. We didn’t find the bodies of all the mages in Clan Restathelin, so I don’t think the slavers would have any compunctions about taking you.”

Ah. Well. _That_ was certainly a new worry for him to have.

Ghilan’amin turned to leave and he was suddenly struck with the insane urge to call her back, ask her to stay for a time. He suppressed it as she whistled sharply, her hound lifting itself from where it had sat itself down by the edge of the clearing, and said “ _Ir melava gilas arla_.”

There was a slight rustling, and Dorian realized that they hadn’t been as alone as he’d thought. He waited for a few minutes, and then, satisfied that he was the only form of sentient life around, he sighed.

“Well,” he said to himself, surveying the wreckage of his camp. His canopy had yet another tear in it, and his clothes were even dirtier now- though, on the other hand, he did have food. “That could have gone worse, I suppose.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am such a _weak woman_. 
> 
> This is entirely an excuse to write something with both my Lavellans in it.
> 
> And also to write something where Dorian gets a new family. 
> 
> I'm going to try to _not_ completely ignore all of the ~18350285 billion reasons why Dorian being adopted by the Dalish is a bad idea, but if you're a stickler for lore, just be aware that this is going to be at least 80% id. 
> 
> And apparently my id wants to do nothing but read about wild edible plants for a week. 
> 
> I will try to update on Tuesdays.


End file.
